Arctic Summer by Damon Galgut Page B

Morgan’s hand and instantly the bond between them was renewed. “My dear fellow,” he said, “you must put all of it into your book.”
    â€œMy book?”
    He was genuinely nonplussed for a second.
    â€œThe one you came here to write.”
    â€œYes, yes, my book. Of course.”
    He had almost forgotten his book. Although he had gone so far as to mention it to his publishers, it had ceased to matter as a reason for being here. His true reason was the one in front of him, still holding his hand, and telling him that an outing had been arranged.
    â€œAn outing? To where?”
    Masood waved vaguely, looking bored. “Some villages,” he said, “you will see. You will get material.”
    The outing was lovely—almost two full days, careering around the flat countryside in a
tikka ghari
, being fed and entertained by lowly Indian officials. But however much he enjoyed himself, it didn’t provide material for anything except distraction.
    He knew that his friend was fobbing him off. They had been speaking for years, in a feverish way, about being in India together and everything they would do there, but now that the happy day had arrived, Masood wasn’t much interested. Morgan could see that he was preoccupied and morose. But when he tried to find out what the matter was, he was deflected with generalities:
    â€œThe future, the future . . . I have to make decisions.”
    â€œDecisions concerning what?”
    â€œAs I told you, the future. Don’t cross-examine me, Morgan, I have enough of that in court. Would you like a mango?”
    Even more distressing was the realisation that they wouldn’t be spending much time together. Plans had been left blurry and undefined, but Morgan had hoped that Masood might join him as he travelled around. He quickly learned that it wasn’t to be.
    â€œI have to go back to Bankipore for work. I am not a free man here, you see, no, not at all. But I will go with you to Delhi next week and we will have a fine time together.”
    â€œAnd after that?”
    â€œAnd after that you will travel. Oh, you will see many things, especially the Moghul splendour I have often mentioned. All of it will go into your book!”
    â€œBut when will we see each other again?” He tried to ask it casually, but his voice shot up into a higher pitch, giving him away.
    â€œYou will come to Bankipore to visit. I am returning there very soon. It is an awful place, I don’t think you’ll like it.”
    â€œYou will be there, Masood. That is the point.”
    â€œYes, of course, that is the point.” But even now—or perhaps especially at this moment—his friend was looking out of the window, his eyes anxious and unsettled.
    â€œAnd will we travel together then?”
    â€œPerhaps so. Yes, perhaps by then it will be possible.” His voice became fuller and more confident. “My life is simply too big for me at the moment, you must forgive me, my dear, it does not detract one tiny bit from my devotion to you, you know that.”
    When they moved on to Delhi a week later, things didn’t greatly improve. They were staying with a friend of Masood’s, Dr Ansari, whose wife was also invisible, though she sent continual little gifts of betel nut and scent. The house was very small, and Morgan and Masood shared a room. Not only with each other: a constant stream of visitors passed through, perching and squatting everywhere, while a cat and three dogs roamed about, and a shrieking cockatoo defecated on the mosquito net. Masood had recently had a cholera inoculation and spent most of his time in bed, worrying that he was sick, or that he wasn’t sick enough. Now and then he reflected aloud that he was dying.
    â€œBut don’t languish here with me, Morgan, my dear chap. I have organised a car to take you on some sightseeing expeditions. History awaits you.”
    â€œWon’t you